


As Close As A Kiss

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Feelings, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: It starts when they’re drinking out of the Cup together, cheek to cheek, the corners of their lips pressed as close as a kiss, Geno’s shoulder pushed strong and sharp into Sidney’s chest.A love story, told between a silver cup and a golden stick.





	

**Author's Note:**

> When the world hands you a golden hockey stick, well, you _have_ to do something with it.
> 
> A thousand thanks to onlylonelyglory and tsume_go, betas extraordinare!

It starts when they’re drinking out of the Cup together, cheek to cheek, the corners of their lips pressed as close as a kiss, Geno’s shoulder pushed strong and sharp into Sidney’s chest.

But maybe-- maybe it starts in Mario’s living room, Geno’s eyes wide and dark and scared, darting around the room to follow as people speak in desperation to understand. Maybe it starts when they stay together after practice the first time, Geno impatiently motioning with a sharp chop of the blade of his stick, saying “снова” until Sidney passes another puck to him, until Sidney teaches him “again.” Maybe it starts with a puck in an empty net in Detroit, when Sidney ushers his team back into the locker room and Geno is waiting silently for him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and letting Sidney lean close, a fragile moment of weakness.

No-- it starts when they’re drinking out of the Cup together. Cheek to cheek, lips as close as a kiss. The bills of their caps are bumping uncomfortably, and Sidney’s hand is on Geno’s shoulder for balance, arm wrapped close and tight against the stretch of Geno’s back. They’re both soaked, drenched in sweat and champagne and beer and god knows what else. The rim of the Cup is digging into Sidney’s hand where he grips it, burning its mark into him. He’s the youngest captain ever to do this, and now Sidney belongs to the Cup as much as it belongs to him.

The Cup tips upward and they follow it, Sidney shifting back to look at Geno properly. Geno is turned away from him, looking out into the room, and when he yells, Sidney is helpless to resist the urge to join him. His hand is up in the air, and Geno sees it, slaps it and holds it. Geno’s looking anywhere but at Sidney, not ignoring but rather trusting that Sidney will be there, and yet Sidney still wants to beg for his attention, wants Geno’s eyes and hands and pride all for himself.

The thought simmers at the back of his mind even as he’s pulled away by everyone who’s vying for his attention. It’s a mess, cleaning up, packing up, trying to get back to Pittsburgh, a party not ready to be interrupted with real life and logistics. Standing in the shower, Sidney feels like nothing could go wrong, like every moment is charmed. It’s a good thing that he’s one of the last to get to shower, that Geno had been in and out half an hour ago, because if Geno was within Sidney’s grasp at that moment-- well, the result wouldn’t be subtle. When Sidney gets out of the shower, Geno’s parked almost exactly in the center of the locker room, and as Sidney slides past him, Geno shifts almost deliberately, allowing Sidney space but also dropping a hand on Sidney’s hip. It’s not a promise, nothing more than a congratulation or a recognition, but Sidney is at least a thought in Geno’s mind, and that’s all he needs for now.

 

 

(He’s not just a thought for long. One kiss shared with the Cup becomes two without it, then eight, twenty, a hundred, a thousand, too many to count-- no, Geno’s touch wasn’t a promise that night, but he fulfills it anyway, again and again. On the ice they’re best friends, linemates, a captain and his alternate. In the soft spaces between practices, curled up together in dimly-lit bedrooms and dripping with the scents of passion, they are simply that: together.)

 

 

It’s been seven years since that moment. Seven years of struggle, of pain, of frustration; of bonding, of trust, of success born of perseverance. Seven years to earn a second cup.

But it wasn’t the same, that second time. Sidney belongs to Geno as much as Geno belongs to Sidney, now, but-- it doesn’t feel that way. He’s more than a thought in Geno’s mind, has been more than a thought for seven years, but on the ice they’re _best friends_. The cup passes from hand to hand, and there’s no moment pressed close and tasting of silver and beer, even though they’ve had a thousand, a million, an immeasurable number of kisses since that first, cheek to cheek with the cup.

It’s not-- it’s not a big deal, Sidney assures himself, and yet the thought lingers for months, sets up a nest in his heart. Worry fluffs its feathers and settles in to sings its song, and some days Sidney is better at suppressing it than others. It sings of the shameless way they kissed the cup together. It sings of Geno’s proper distance in the locker room and confident bravado in the bedroom. It sings of the breathless, hidden wonder of seven years ago and the painful secrecy of now. Hours and days together, once whiled away blissfully, are now a weight on Sidney’s heart that pulls the beat towards wishes of silver and gold.

The moments with Geno aren’t charmed, but rationed and numbered.

It’s been seven years since that moment, and Sidney has earned his thousandth point. It doesn’t matter as much as one thousand and two; one thousand and two, Geno drives hard down the ice, bullies straight through a defender to get the puck to Sidney, to the net.

(That’s love. Bittersweet, perfect, strong enough to shatter Sidney’s heart as he rebuilds it. It tastes like silver and beer, tight against his inner lip. It might not be enough.)

 

 

They tell him there’s a special ceremony for his one thousandth at the next home game. The only ceremony that Sidney wants is a nice dinner, somewhere with dim lighting and a secluded corner booth, so he can pretend the man across the table and he are a couple in love and not also two men hiding the truth from the world. Sidney expects a puck or maybe a jersey to be handed to him by Mike or Jim or Mario to recognize the moment. It’s still not the recognition he seeks.

Geno approaches him instead, the locker room hushed around them. Sidney’s mouth goes dry as he sees what’s in Geno’s hands: a golden hockey stick. It shimmers under the harsh locker room lighting, an incongruous sight against the stench of old jocks and dirty socks. Geno’s steps are tentative, his eyes soft and wondering and filled with depths that Sidney still doesn’t understand, glittering with the reflection of the golden stick. Geno stops, a gulf echoing between them, and Sidney looks down at the stick along with him. It hurts less. The bills of their caps are too far from each other to bump as Sidney’s hands curve around the cool metal, each one a measured two inches from Geno’s hands. Geno lets the weight of the golden stick fall into Sidney’s hands, dropping his shoulders and upper body along with it as if it is heavy, played up for laughs. When Geno lets go, Sidney looks up, and it’s a tiny moment drawn long before Geno meets his gaze. Sidney smiles, an expression bursting joyous and free even against the song in his chest. Geno smiles back.

There are other presents-- a jersey, a statuette, the actual stick-- but Sidney lets those wander to his locker without his touch upon them. Sidney examines the inscription on the blade of the golden stick:

_PRESENTED TO_  
 _**SIDNEY CROSBY, #87**_  
 _IN RECOGNITION OF 1,000 CAREER NHL POINTS_  
_PITTSBURGH PENGUINS VS WINNIPEG JETS, ON THURSDAY FEBRUARY 16 2017_  
_CONGRATULATIONS FROM THE PITTSBURGH PENGUINS_

There’s no hint of greater meaning, no matter how Sidney searches, and eventually he must put it down to get ready for the game. There’s more pomp and circumstance there, Mario handing off his gift, a video playing, the usual, but-- Sidney longs for something else. Cheek to cheek, a kiss with the cup. But it’s not here, not even in the same country, and Sidney lets the wish die, shriveled and quiet, in his chest.

 

 

Geno comes for him after the game. “Get dressed nice and come to car, we have dinner reservations,” he says, brisk. Sidney knows his hurry is because he wants to get his sweaty gear off, because that’s how he always is after a game, but it feels-- impersonal. What you’d say to a friend, not a lover, no matter how secret.

The car ride is quiet, Sidney chewing over his own thoughts and Geno uncharacteristically buried in his. The dinner reservation is exactly what Sidney wished for: dim and private. Geno clears his throat a couple times after they’re seated. He shifts, clearly uncomfortable. He reaches his hands across the table, holding his palms up, looking at Sidney expectantly until Sidney drops his palms into the cradle of Geno's hands. They’re warm and a little sweaty, gripping tight, and Sidney grips back.

“You’re best, Sidney,” Geno bursts out, as if he can’t hold the words back. He shakes his head, impatient, and starts again. “I’m so proud of you getting thousand points,” he tries, and his voice doesn’t show a lie, rich and round with pride and awe and what could be love. “You’re best hockey player, and best Penguin, and best friend, and best--” Geno hesitates a little, casts his eyes down. “Best partner,” he says softly.

“Geno--” Sidney says. Something cracks in his voice, ready to break.

Geno tugs at his hands, shushes him before he can continue. “I’m not done yet,” he scolds. “Best partner, for so many years, ad even though it’s big secret, you always do best. It’s almost eight years since we first win cup together, eleven since I come from Russia to play with Sidney Crosby. Now we have two cups, and I’m think-- when I’m belong to Sidney, like cup, like team, like hockey? When I’m good enough to say to everyone, _here is Sidney, he’s mine and I’m his_?” Geno takes a deep breath as tears tremble in the corner of Sidney’s eyes. He takes a new tack, now. “When I’m hear about ceremony and gifts, I’m go straight to Mario. I say, I’m have idea. Make golden stick, I’m give to him. Nobody give you golden stick except me, Sidney. It’s say it’s from team, but-- I want it’s from me. Show the entire world, you’re golden to me.”

“Show the entire world-- Geno, you--” Sidney blurts.

Geno stops him again with a tug on his hands. Geno’s eyes are wide, white-rimmed with nerves, and he stares up at Sidney from a nervous, dipped chin. “It’s dirty trick, give to you in front of team, say it’s from team, so you have to take it and say yes,” Geno says.

“Say yes to _what_ , Geno?” Sidney asks, desperate and high, each word reverberating with the swift kicking beat of his heart.

“I think, Sid doesn’t like rings, never wear cup ring or any other ring,” Geno says, and he’s babbling now, words running together too quick. “But Sid loves hockey sticks, yes? He loves hockey. And-- we share hockey. So I’m think-- golden hockey stick better than golden ring.” Sidney’s mouth opens, gasping for air that seems suddenly too thin, and Geno rockets forward. “First kiss with cup, and second time we have cup I want to say this but I’m too nervous, can’t do it, and I’m so mad, so _mad_ , because I’m want to give to you and I miss my chance, I act like fucking idiot. So now I’m make it up to you, I’m so sorry.”

Sidney is gaping, mouth flapping like a fish. Geno holds Sidney’s hands firm as he half-stands, shuffles sideways out of his chair to kneel at the floor at Sidney’s feet. Sidney can feel both of their hands go hot and cold, trembling together under the furious beats of their hearts.

“Sidney Crosby,” Geno says, slow and measured, and Sidney’s vision flickers and grows hazy, “Will you make me happiest man in whole world, marry me and tell everyone I’m yours and you’re mine?”

“Jesus, Geno,” Sidney gasps, and Geno’s panicked expression reminds him it’s not an answer. He starts laughing-- they’ve bungled this every step of the way-- and leans forward, pulling his hands free from Geno’s to wrap his arms around Geno’s neck. “Yes, yes, of course, I will,” he says, a babble of his own, and Geno’s harsh exhalation blows warm against his ear. Geno’s arms go tight around Sidney, and for a long moment, they do nothing but breathe against each other.

 

 

 

It starts when they’re drinking out of the Cup together, cheek to cheek, the corners of their lips pressed as close as a kiss, Geno’s shoulder pushed strong and sharp into Sidney’s chest. It starts again when they’re standing in the center of the locker room together, face to face, their hands held together on a golden hockey stick, Geno’s heart strong and steady for Sidney.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


End file.
